Love As the Moon Loves
by QuillerQueen
Summary: A series of stories written for Dark!Outlaw Queen Week 2017. Title inspired by a poem by Isra Al-Thibeh.
1. Scorch Marks in the Sky

At least it's a clear night, a myriad stars blinking down upon the kingdom under the black vault of the sky. The Regina of old used to dream by them, the Evil Queen plot under their squinting eye, and this Queen Regina of fresh starts has a newfound appreciation for these tiny lights in the dark.

The fires, not so much.

A flaming line snakes through the courtyard, poorly concealed under the domes of bare-limbed, half-dead trees.

Regina, face turned towards the heavens, lets it be for now.

It started three days ago with the first angry mob raising their pitchforks against her for supposedly murdering their king and queen. So much for blank slates. At the time it seemed rather like a small nuisance, a minor issue she could easily solve with a flick of her wrist. A spark here, a flicker there—sometimes she'd even wait for one to catch, let it feed on the battered rooftops and spawn more frisky flames to lick at the ramshackle remains she calls, for lack of a better term, home. Never enough to burn the place to ashes, but one must turn negatives into positives somehow, and she supposes she'd always had a penchant for playing with fire.

The problem is these villagers don't know when to give up and go back to their pathetic peasant lives— lives she's graciously deigned to let them keep despite the trouble they've given her. They're relentless. With each vanquished threat to her poor excuse of a castle, the attacks only grow more vicious. The brunt of them comes, whether as a matter of tactics (hoping to catch her defenceless in her sleep or trying to rob her of sleep?), or necessity (common folk have work to do by day after all), or perhaps just for effect, by night.

She knows she can fend them off—be it protective enchantments or incantations or spouting jets of water from the palms of her hands. It's not that she cannot stand her ground against them, even though admittedly doing so without causing them serious harm—because that's the person she is now, isn't she, darkness and light interwoven—has proven quite the challenge.

And then there's the heart-rending incident from this morning.

At this point, Regina is just…tired.

And is any of this really even worth it?

The castle hardly lives up to its name these days. Hell, Regina barely recognised the place when she first chose to claim it. As the plaque commemorating the downfall of this realm's Evil Queen so proudly boasts, measures had been taken to strip this once symbol of terror of its power. Instead of the grotesque, spiky skyline, a single spire juts out where only stumps of the rest stand pathetically like stems whose flowers had been nipped off. The outer walls had been razed to the ground, and the marble chambers and halls are riddled with debris.

Why bother fixing up the place when she's clearly not welcome in this land?

The eerie cheers of the angry villagers seem distant from her vantage point as torches soar up in the air and dent the aged slates.

Tonight won't be quite the lazy stargazing rendezvous she's planned—if Robin shows up at all.

* * *

The ale was especially strong that night, the first tankard spreading warm and heady in his belly and making him pleasantly dizzy.

Or perhaps it was her.

The Queen. Not evil—bold and audacious, certainly, but somehow…different. Not the monster of his land's tales, and softer around the edges than the woman who'd had him tied to a chair in that strange faraway realm. Over shared drinks, she met each smirk with a coy smile of her own, her quick wit and sharp tongue keeping him on his toes—and Robin likes a challenge. Brazen words sometimes were chased by oddly gentle looks—a legacy of the other Robin, surely, frustratingly. But she wanted to know _him,_ told him so straight up. He liked that, too, the bluntness. It made things easier.

And she was quite the sight for sore eyes.

What was it the stories would dub her? The fairest in all the land? Not by any means a stretch, for Robin couldn't help drinking her in: the dark locks curling in the stuffy heat and clinging to her face, her eyes shining with mirth as she parried his jest with one of her own, and those lips smacking ever so slightly as she relished her drink.

It was definitely her as much as it was the ale.

Was she in the same boat? Were her flushed cheeks a mere result of the amber liquid they shared? Or did he get to claim at least some credit for that?

"Enjoying the view, Thief?" she quipped.

Caught.

Best 'fess up then.

"That I am, Your Majesty." He meant for it to be cheeky, roguish, charming even; he was taken aback instead by the soft sincerity of the confession that shouldn't have been much of a revelation in the first place because she had to know how bloody gorgeous she was.

Her cheeks burned a decidedly deeper shade of scarlet, and she seemed just as embarrassed by her unguarded reaction as he was by his own.

"A bit of air, perhaps? The lady seems a tad short of breath."

"And here I thought I was the breath-taking one," she pouted playfully, but stood all the same, slightly unsteady on her feet for just a moment.

"Milady." He offered her an arm with mock ceremony, and she let herself be led into the night.

Stumbling slightly in their blissfully buzzed state, they headed for the forest—and would she have trusted him so blindly to not lead her to danger had she been completely sober? She wasn't drunk, not quite that, but still he wondered. She kept glancing up at him from under long lashes, her lips twitching whenever she caught him watching her in return—and his eyes refused to follow the sensible path their feet trod and remained glued to her instead. She was absolutely stunning, half-unravelled hairdo and hooded eyes and her laugh tinged with liquor as they tripped over a tree root. She grabbed onto his shirt, nails digging into his side, and suddenly her face was inches from his own, her tongue darting out to lick her lips as her eyes dropped to his.

Never, not even in his inexperienced boyhood, had the prospect of a kiss filled him with such anticipation.

And yet Robin didn't kiss the Queen that night, nor any night since.

He didn't want it to happen in a liquor-induced haze and have that mar the experience for either of them. And then, well, he finds he somewhat enjoys the sizzling sparks flying between them and the charged expectation of almost-kisses that end up being planted on flushed cheeks, pecks that barely touch the corners of her lips, the teasing temptation that's become a bit of a game between them. Who will last longer; who will be the first to yield to temptation?

It's all new to him, this…almost reverence, this willingness to wait with which he actually lends weight to such a simple—and to his old self, mundane—thing as a kiss. Had someone told Robin of Locksley only a week ago that he'd ever consider such a thing, he'd have roared with laughter. Yet now he finds himself acting like a sentimental fool—and it scares and puzzles him as much as it thrills him.

Wondrously, she seems to understand, even possibly to have been there herself once. He supposes she must have; assumes with a pinch of bitterness it would most likely have been Other Robin who'd had a hand in changing that. His shadow looms over them, over _him_ , ever present—will it always be so?

Robin dismisses it now, enough shadows already lingering in the night as he approaches the palace by a well-trodden path.

It only takes a glimpse—a tendril of smoke curling towards the crescent moon, an orange blaze flickering through the treetops—for him to know the Queen's in trouble.

As he tears through the foliage towards the crumbling walls with straining muscles and a squeezing heart, Robin wonders if they've gambled too much on chance and pushed their luck too far.

* * *

By the time Regina snaps out of her starry-eyed stupor, the fire has eaten away a good chunk of the slates and sunk its teeth deep into the wooden beams criss-crossing the roofs underneath. The supporting structure creaks and groans in the roaring inferno, and Regina watches in consternation as a large block is shaved off the northern tower, a flaming mass hurtling down and hitting the dome one level beneath her. It caves with a pitiful, ear-splitting cacophony, the tremors upsetting her balance and landing her on her backside, much too close to the edge she was already dangerously teetering on to begin with.

This may be a bit more than Regina had bargained for.

Chanting voices join the deafening conflagration, and that's what does it for her—she's not giving up. She _will_ rise victorious if only to spite this misuided witch hunt.

A deluge of water rains from the dark cloud Regina summons with trembling arms, a torrential downpour that has her drenched to the skin within seconds. Still it's not enough to quench the flames, and weather spells are not her forte, are more trouble than they're usually worth what with the demands on the caster as well as the potential upheaval of climate. Perhaps if she can hold it long enough to at least contain the fire to the northern wing, it might consume itself in time. Lose a battle, win a war.

Fresh start, indeed.

Another beam shatters and falls, pulling the ground from under her feet, sending her tumbling and sliding down the rickety, white-hot slope as she scrabbles for purchase and grabs for a fortuitously positioned ledge with bloodied nails.

Caught between two fires—a literal one above and a metaphorical one in the form of a raging mob below—Regina's mind works furiously as her fingers begin to cramp.

"Your Majesty! Let go!"

It's _his_ voice, and Regina grins. With a quick downward glance that sends her head spinning, she closes her eyes and releases the ledge, falling, falling…

And then she's yanked by the arm and hoisted up, her other winding around his torso instinctively as they swing together before Robin begins their descent down the rope and to the sheltered alcove at the foot of the wall.

###

"That," says Robin after they've slipped deep enough into the forest, "wasn't quite the outing I'd imagined."

Regina chuckles breathlessly. She's winded, likely a combination of smoke and exertion, but there's a spring in her step and a quickening of her pulse he associates with that familiar adrenalin rush he himself is positively addicted to.

"Not quite what I had planned either," she lets on. "Although it certainly livened things up, don't you think?"

So they may have cut it a bit too close tonight even for their liking, but it's done now, the incident but another adventure under their belt. Daredevils, the both of them—and the thought warms him. Almost as much as the dawning realisation they've been walking through the woods hand in hand, weaving between the trees as the shouts of the villagers deprived of their prey gradually fade. Not so the image of her standing atop the roof, her silhouette etched against the flames, proud and unbent, majestic in her defiance like some mighty goddess of old lore—that Robin doubts he'll ever forget.

"You needn't try so hard, Your Majesty," he winks back at her. "I've never once been bored in your company."

"Still a terrible flirt, I see. You'll have to come up with something less tired and cliche than that if you'd woo a queen."

She's always challenging him, this woman, dancing a dance he's become quite attached to, one whose steps and figures no one but they get to invent. Yet the single squeeze of his hand reads as an acknowledgement of his perfectly sincere compliment, no matter how nonchalantly delivered and received.

"I'll try my hardest, but I'm afraid my predicament can only be remedied by a wealth of practice."

"And I assume I'm to subject myself to your clumsy efforts?"

"It'd be my immense honour. And ultimately, forgive me for saying so, your immense pleasure."

"Mmm, so cocky."

And shit. The way she says it, with an eyebrow cocked and her voice deep and husky, that little hum she leads with, it all makes his blood boil hot with desire.

And she knows, of course she knows because that's a glimmer of pride in her eyes right there, and he's so going to pay her back in kind. Just as soon as he's collected his wits about him. She moves past him, brushing ever so gently against him as she does, and throws back an amused:

"Coming, Thief?"

Well, that's just—Well, he might as well.

###

They're stranded.

A roadblock bars their way forward, a mountain of stone and tree trunks heaved atop each other to slow their progress. And behind them, faint shouts and the distant flicker of torches. Regina can't transport them with magic, for she needs to save all of it for later if her scheme is to succeed; nor can Robin lead them around, for it'd either take too long or land them straight on the villagers' pointy pitchforks.

So here they are, camped in a tree until the villagers pass, allowing them to double down on the hidden trail Robin swears will get them where she wants to go. Regina's heavy skirt is nigh impossible to manage as it snags on twigs and upsets her balance, and Robin is teasing her mercilessly for it. So she raises a brow at him and summons a purple cloud faster and more precise than the nimblest of handmaids, reemerging before him in a riding coat and leather pants. He stares for a bit, then shakes his head in amusement, opening and closing his mouth.

"What is it?" she asks, changing course halfway from teasing to hesitant. He's giving her this peculiar look, like he's seeing her for the first time, and perhaps in a way he is—this side of her at least.

"Nothing, just—it suits you. Never pegged you for a rider."

"But I am. I was."

"What happened?"

She tells him. About Rocinante and how he was her best friend, her escape, before he fell victim to her darkness. About Daniel, how she loved and lost him. She even tells him about Snow White and her obsession with riding, with Regina, and how instead of forging a bond between them it alienated them and robbed Regina of the one last retreat she still had. About how in all those years in Storybrooke she never really took up riding again. Even though they aren't Other Robin and That Regina, she takes that leap and lets him in.

When she's done and Robin's said nothing at all, never once reaching for her hand (he doesn't have to, of course he doesn't have to, this is new to both of them after all and it's not quite clear just yet where they stand, but that doesn't stop her from wishing to be touched, wishing he'd want to offer her this kind of comfort), Regina wonders if perhaps her little tirade was too much, too soon.

"I'm s—"

"Your turn." To her astonished expression, Robin flashes his dimples at her, though she fancies she catches a hint of apprehension in the tense line of his jaw. "You get to ask me something personal about my past. That's how the game works, yeah?"

Oh. Well, that's…correct.

They've had this little thing going ever since that first drink. That first night, Robin had insisted it be made clear from the get go that despite what either of them might sometimes be led to think, the two of them don't actually know each other. Not these versions anyway. But even on that first night, they'd both confessed they wanted to. And so they struck a deal: they would take turns to ask the other questions about anything and everything, from the mundane to the deep. Quid pro quo. Passes are fair game; lies and assumptions are not.

He was right, of course—this Robin is not the Robin Regina knew, and it's paramount that she remember that. If they're ever to stand a chance together, she needs to unlearn what she thinks she knows about him because assumptions, especially false ones, have and will hurt him more than ignorance ever could.

Perhaps that's where her other half had gone wrong—she'd wanted so much to see the two Robins' similarities, to find a connection between her Robin Hood and this Robin of Locksley, in hopes she'd feel as close a connection with this new Robin as she had with hers; and she'd failed to understand exactly how and why this search for Robin Hood would make Robin of Locksley feel less than. Like a surrogate, an impostor, a placeholder—always second best. Her other half had had neither time nor chance in the upheaval that had been Storybrooke to process her own feeling enough to get to the bottom of Robin's.

But this half will.

And so they ask away: random things that cross their minds, silly things and painful ones alike; they crack jokes and delve into deep discussions. She knows this Robin, unlike Other Robin (as they've come to call him for clarity and brevity's sake), is a light sleeper and an early riser. He prefers ale to wine and meats to sweets. She knows he detests sunsets because they remind him of death and decline, but has a passionate love for the night sky because _it's full of stories and symbolism and I'm secretly a sentimental fool_ (and if that one doesn't hit close to home). He's been in love once, or getting there, but Marian had been ripped away from this world too soon to find out what that really feels like.

So far he's only taken one pass, and that concerned the subject of his parents (Regina is tempted to make those pesky assumptions here, but this Robin's father needn't have been a dispossessed widower with a broken heart).

Robin's watching her, fiddling with the strap of his quiver, and she tries to take a deep breath subtly.

"If you were never to return to this realm," she asks, loses her nerve halfway as his brow shoots upwards, and amends. "If you'd had to stay in the Land Without Magic, I mean—what's the thing you'd miss the most?"

"About this land? Or about my life?"

He's stalling.

"Either," she shrugs, then winks at him. "Both. You know how greedy us royals are."

It helps—he grins, his shoulders relaxing and his restless fingers stilling. A while passes in silence and his eyes have wandered, gazing at nothing in particular as Regina shifts on her bough. She'd wonder again if this was such a great idea after all—he seems like a private person, one to not dwell on feelings or over-analyse them, much less do so with others around. But he's agreed, has used his pass before, and doesn't seem particularly put out besides—just deep in thought.

"Honestly?" he puzzles. "There isn't much. That's partly why I'd agreed to leave with you in the first place—new world, new life, new adventure. If there is anything for me here, something I'd come to miss in time, I'd not had the time to find out—Storybrooke had been," he grimaces, "eventful."

Regina laughs at that—boy, was it ever. Robin throws her a half-smirk before uncertainty flashes in his eyes, and he fidgets with his quiver again.

"And, believe it or not," he says quietly, with an undertone of sarcasm he can't seriously expect she's buying, "I'd hoped to maybe, I don't know, find myself? I hadn't exactly been happy with me."

"And did you? Find yourself?" Regina probes tentatively, a mere breath of a question. This is possibly the closest they've gotten, the most open he's been about the emotional turmoil of being confronted with a better version of himself (at least that's what she knows he—still?—believes). In a way, she knows the feeling, even though his circumstances bring their own unique challenges she can't pretend to fathom.

Robin lets out a sharp breath through his nose, a faint scoff with hints of self-deprecation (that she can relate to).

"Not quite. Some answers, perhaps. I don't really— I see—possibilities. Vaguely. Before it'd all felt sort of—tedious? Dull? Without prospect. Now it's a bloody mess. Better in a way, though."

"Makes you feel alive?"

A bewildered, dazzling smile splits his face at that, and there it is—one of those indescribable moments where their souls seem to connect, to flutter pleasantly, ready almost to take flight.

"Yes." Robin bites his lip, sending more than just Regina's soul aflutter as his body gravitates towards hers. "And what about you, Your Majesty? How's this whole split-personality-mixed-but-not-merged business working out for you?"

She blinks, shooing the brief but decidedly sinking sense of disappointment when he makes no attempt to move even closer (they're already in close quarters sitting in the tree, she needs to stop this—this _wanting_ ) and perhaps, oh she doesn't know, let her sink _her_ teeth into that lip of his (oh well, she definitely needs to chill the fuck out, he's never kissed her before and he's clearly not going to do it now). His question runs as deep for her as it does for him, and her answer will be just as candid.

"Still strange—but good. So much better than before. Even back when we were one, part of me—us?—always felt shunned. Unloved." She swallows. "Unlovable. Turns out we were wrong. And now…I'm the Evil Queen, but I'm also Regina. I'm both and neither, and it's—confusing, and I need to figure myself out all over again. It's—difficult to explain."

Before she knows what hit her, Regina finds her hand clutched in Robin's, pressed against his heart, however briefly, in a gesture that has instant tears springing to her eyes.

"That goes for the both of us."

###

Robin isn't sure what possessed him to say and do the things he's just said and done. What he does know for certain is he'd never felt this close to anyone before—never let himself feel this close. Never had that moment where understanding sparks, where another person just _gets him_ —and he just gets them in return.

It's vaguely threatening, but incredibly intoxicating.

Just like her.

A stray moonbeam seeps through the foliage and illuminates her face, casting its light on a smudge of ash smeared across her cheek. Somehow it doesn't seem to mar her features one bit.

"I'm about to go down in history as the worst thief by far for blowing my cover," he says before he loses his nerve, "but I'd very much like to steal a kiss right now."

Air collapses from her lungs in what he would very much like to think is relief, and then she's shifting, gripping his tunic and crashing their bodies together as he tries to balance them in the branches, and with their lips just a hair's breadth apart, she whispers coyly:

"Can't steal something that's been given to you."

He kisses her then, buries his fingers in her hair as he tastes her, and _fucking finally_. Her lips are warm and soft and kissing back just as hungrily, just as desperately, just as impatiently as she licks the seam of his lips before slipping her tongue in his mouth and working bloody magic as she lets it slide deliciously against his.

There's been a speck of doubt, a buried fear that this would be just like that unfortunate kiss in her vault in Storybrooke, wrought with unfulfilled potential and marked by confused disappointment. Robin hadn't felt quite that, but then unlike her he'd never kissed a soul mate before, so he hadn't exactly known just what their kiss had been missing.

Now, though—now he knows. His head spins and his chest bursts with something bright and happy, and gods he's never letting this feeling go—never letting _her_ go. Unless—

Regina hums, a throaty thing that drives him mad with desire, and pulls back with a little pop that sends another little thrill through him. He doesn't want to open his eyes just in case he's wrong and she doesn't feel the same, just in case he'll see that pinched, pained expression from back at the vault. But this time, when he finally does pluck up courage to look at her, her face doesn't crumble nor does she frown. Instead he finds her watching him with the same frantic hope, with a dazed look that must mirror his own—and she smiles a dazzling smile before they dive right back in.

It's the bloody angry mob that interrupts their thorough, and thoroughly delicious, explorations, and Robin's fingers itch with a wild desire to notch an arrow and strike them all down for their insolence. But the path stretches before them unobstructed after the villagers pass, clueless as to their prey's close proximity, and Regina slips from his arms and descends the tree with surprising agility.

Only as he reaches the ground himself and catches her weighted expression does he realise he's actually not the faintest clue where she's taking them.

"Truth or dare, Thief."

He knows about the game, but so far they've stuck to the truth part as it served their purpose; she must be asking for a reason, and Robin knows what to pick.

"The latter."

"It might be more than you can handle."

The delivery is all impish and playful, but Robin's eyes are drawn to where her hand flies to her stomach, touching lightly.

When did he see that before?

* * *

The night before, they rambled through the forest. It was Robin's turn to show Regina around his home, and he did a thorough enough job that dawn had arrived before they reached the edge of the woods again.

The royal highroad loomed before them, and the ground shook with dozens of thundering hooves as a retinue of knights came to view. Robin's instincts kicked in immediately, but despite his timely warning Regina stood rooted to the spot smack-dab in the middle of the road as Robin looked on with alarm from his wild hydrangea hideout.

"It's her! The Evil Queen! Charge!"

"No! Leave her to the king!"

The young king charged forward, plucking the helmet from his head, and even from afar the hatred radiating off of him was tangible as he stared Regina down. Yet still she didn't move, with the exception of her arms winding around her torso, as if such a feeble attempt at defence would count for something.

"Henry…" she pleaded, voice brittle as glass.

But the boy— _her_ boy, Robin realised, only this one not at all hers—unsheathed his sword, not a word to spare for the powerful sorceress begging for mercy as if she couldn't snuff out his life with a flick of her wrist. She would do no such thing, however; nor would she move as the young knight raised the sword in the air, ready to strike the deathly blow. Robin notched an arrow, drew, and released, watching its flight straight for the knight's neck—

And Regina spread her arms wide, a burst of magic blasting the arrow as well as the horsemen away, yet not harming a hair on the king's head.

What in the bloody hell was she doing?

Robin shot forth from the bush, using the moment of surprise that had stayed the swing of the boy's blade, snatching Regina by the arm in an effort to pull her to safety. The boy awoke from his stupor then, and Robin saw death descending upon him, glinting off the shiny metal of the sword—

And then a puff of purple smoke, and the pair of them were transported to the dark alley behind the tavern.

" Never," Regina hissed, shaking from head to toe, " _ever_ do that again."

* * *

Robin recognises the gesture now as he glances down at her arm brushing her belly. She's nervous. Anxious. Vulnerable. He doesn't know which, but it dawns on him he knows her well enough now to understand it's not a good emotion, not a welcome one, that she's trying to anchor herself this way.

"Try me," he throws back with a cheeky smirk he hopes will distract her.

Regina nods, the barest hint of a smile fleeting across her face.

"I know we've been through this once, and it didn't exactly work out for you in Storybrooke. But this realm—we're not getting our fresh start here. _I'm_ not getting a fresh start here. Because Nottingham and his brutish guards might be after you, but you can still blend in fairly easily. It's me whose face is known and hated by all the realm, including my—including Henry. The new king." Her words turn bitter there, but she swallows her pain quickly and takes a step towards him. "I can open a portal. Get us out of here, somewhere we won't be hunted. Maybe the Enchanted Forest—my version of it."

Robin looks at her long and hard, looks at the fading stars scattered in the sky, behind the curtain of smoke still rising from the charred castle that's almost certainly doomed to burning to ashes. Regina isn't wrong—there's nothing for them here.

If stars are nothing but scorch-marks in the sky doomed one day to die, aren't shooting stars the better off for choosing to go out in a blaze?

There's just one question he needs to ask before he gives her his answer.

"Because your son cannot touch you there," he says, "or because I cannot touch him?"

Regina smiles—a sad, dark little thing.

"Because I don't want to see either of you hurt the other…for me." And because she can't stand to see the hatred in the boy's eyes, even though she's not saying it.

Robin is content with what he now knows, however, with all the things said and implied between them. Enough so to reach for the hand now gripping her riding coat, and tug her forward with a surprisingly freeing:

"Lead the way, Your Majesty."


	2. Homebound

Never had Robin dreamed he'd find home here, in a place so similar yet so very different from his realm.

The Enchanted Forest, they call it, and he recognises many a winding path and sheltered glade even though he's never visited these parts before. Yet somehow these leaves are greener, the bark smells sweeter, and the earth weaves a carpet of grass and moss softer than the slippers he's nicked from the royal chambers. In the absence of shackles chaining him to a directionless, empty past, and with no Nottingham to breathe down his neck, Robin breathes more easily.

He still looks over his shoulder constantly, but he feels oddly…free.

And yet.

A fresh start, she'd said, and hasn't he been given as much of one as she has?

If only he knew what to do with it.

Regina, on the other hand, seems to have no such dilemma. Her castle is intact here, sharp spires scraping the sky and walls standing tall and wide and seemingly impenetrable—even though it's really her magic that lends the place its most potent defence. And how she relishes her precious stock: thick grimoires and dusty scrolls, cauldrons and vials of all shapes and sizes, all manner of ingredients enticing and repulsive but without fault powerful in her capable hands.

Although not always cooperative, it would seem, for this is the third explosion coming from her chambers this morning, followed by a frustrated growl and the smashing of broken glass.

Robin, reckless bastard that he is in a world that doesn't (for now) feed his zest for adventure, pokes his head through the door presently oozing a rather revolting liquid.

"And this," he grins as he takes in the spilt contents of a shattered vial and the fury radiating off of her as she paces the room like an angry wildcat, "is why one should never skip breakfast."

"I take it you've not brought me any?" she challenges, some of the frustration giving way to amusement, and perhaps a carefully concealed speck of sincerity.

Well, they're not quite there yet, are they? They're not quite this intimate, or this sort of—of— _domestic_. Or are they? Truthfully he's still figuring out this part of his (their?) life, too. And how is it that she seems to have so much figured out already?

She's returning, that's how. This had been home to her before the Curse, before Storybrooke. That must count for something, surely.

"So," he probes by way of distraction from his insecurities and her temper, "what sort of magic has offended you so?"

"It's not that," she scoffs at the sad remnants puddling on the floor. "I've been experimenting with…some sort of magical replacement for…well, a washing machine."

"Washing machine," he says dumbly. Clearly one of those modern contraptions that would puzzle the living soul out of him back in her land.

"Yes. It's a machine that—"

"Washes?" he throws in with the kind of smirk he knows vexes her as much as it pleases her.

"Smartass. If I have to do one more load of laundry standing knee-deep in an icy brook, getting my hands raw and nails broken— Don't you dare laugh! I'm a queen, and a bit more refined!"

"Oh, no doubt, Your Majesty," Robin snorts. "You're the very epitome of poise and composure. That vial especially would attest to that."

"You can mock me for my temper, thief, but you don't know the torture of no indoor plumbing or tampons because you'd never gotten the chance to experience the perks of them."

"Tampons?"

"Oh," she falters, her cheeks taking on the slightest dab of pink. "They're, well, lady products, so technically you wouldn't—Never mind. But they make life so much easier, I don't even want to think—"

"I see."

She's so flustered Robin supposes it'd be amusing (even adorable, though neither of them would admit to that) otherwise, he'd certainly rib her mercilessly, but the topic is one he's never really discussed with a woman before and grown man that he is, he finds his own ignorance awkward. Did Other Robin have such qualms or were they so intimate it was a non-issue?

"Well," he changes the topic swiftly, "I'll have you know there is a modern perk or two I'd have liked to explore more."

"Oh?"

"Not the demon box," he says darkly, the memory of the bestial blaring bringing back echoes of a headache. The risqué thought haunting him for a while now floats to the forefront of his mind when Regina looks at him over her shoulder as she reaches for a goblet on her vanity, and the sight of her delectable rear makes it impossible to keep in. "But that marvellous tub in one of your bathrooms certainly showed promise."

Her eyebrow shoots up at that, a knowing smile curling her lips before his progressively more heated gaze makes her tongue dart out and lick those sinful lips.

"The hot tub," she rasps a needless clarification.

And even without one, they have each other hot and bothered within moments.

* * *

Regina revels.

She revels in her castle, whole and equipped with this land's luxuries. She revels in Robin's presence, and the fact he chose to come along and keeps choosing to stay. And she revels in her people, no longer planning or wishing for her early demise but accepting of her and content for the very first time with her reign.

Things may not have fallen into place completely just yet, but they're getting there.

Robin worries her, however. He's out of sorts, and when Regina lies awake at night she wonders if perhaps he wouldn't be better off without her after all. Is your soul mate supposed to uproot you like this? To turn your world upside down? Make you question everything?

"Were things easier before me?"

He shifts under her, liberating his arm from around her shoulders, and props his head up to look her in the eye. His expression is quite unreadable, and Regina shivers, her stomach plummeting.

"I suppose so," he says slowly, and she turns away to hide just how deeply that admission hurts her. But he isn't done yet. "Better, though? Not necessarily."

"But you're not happy."

"I don't know what I am," he says with an annoyed, frustrated huff. "I don't quite know who I am or what to do with this new life. It's a relief to be rid of my enemies, but it's also…"

"Boring?" she supplies with a chuckle that is decidedly not wet.

"You knew I was a scoundrel when you met me." His voice grows serious again as his fingers plunge into her hair, fiddling with it as he struggles for the right words. "You—you fit here. You are the queen, and I—"

"A burlap-loving peasant who sleeps in dirt?"

For the split second it takes him to react, Regina wonders if she's pushing it, if maybe this is a time he won't appreciate her efforts to ease the tension with their usual ribbing, but then he's snorting into her neck, pulling on her earlobe with his teeth, and she turns to him with a grin of her own.

"Excuse me, I sleep on silk sheets nowadays. _Your_ silk sheets," Robin points out, setting to kiss down her neck, ending with a tantalising little lick to her collarbone before he sighs and plops back down into the mattress, staring at the dark canopy. "Sheets or not, I'm still just a petty thief out of a job and with not a clue what to do with myself."

Can she really blame him if he misses the thrill of adventure? Maybe she cannot answer all his questions for him, but luckily there are still nobles to rob and treasures to steal.

"How about you get one then?"

For she might be queen, but he could never be content just being her prince, and the last thing she wants is for him to compromise his true self. But perhaps, just perhaps, he could become the Prince of Thieves—the noble kind, with a purpose. If that works for him. If he's even willing to try.

It'll take time (which they have) and patience (that one might prove a challenge), but finding your path always does. She resolves not to push and he promises to keep an open mind and not beat himself up, and they agree to just let things unfold and see where life takes them.

And where life takes them is on a common path. Their intimacy is new and fragile, full of questions with no easy answers, but one thing is clear: they each cling to the other just as much as the other clings to them. And perhaps this is the most stunning, and most comforting, realisation of all: they are no longer alone. Her chambers are for two, and his mostly unoccupied. The darker corners of the castle haunted by memories no longer have sway over her as new memories chase the old ones away. Despite all the baggage, this is their fresh start, and they're building it together, right here.

Never would Regina have believed this of all places might ever feel like home.

And yet.


	3. A Clandestine Affair

It's not cheating.

It absolutely is _not_.

True, Regina does sneak out every few days behind Robin's back on business that remains carefully hidden from him. They're each their own person after all, and it's perfectly healthy to not be joined at the hip all the time—and never does she remind herself of this more often than those mornings she slips out of their bed at the crack of dawn, leaving a short note with a salacious promise of quality time later that night, and delves into the depths of the forest for one of her very special dates.

A date that doesn't involve her soul mate—and one it's absolutely crucial he doesn't find out about.

And this may not be cheating, but there's an element of deception all the same. Regina doesn't particularly like this state of things—hates it with a passion, in fact. Oh how she wishes she could just tell him, for even though it's not what it may seem, the secret eats at her, and the reason it's even necessary (and it is, it really is, she's thought about it long and hard, but she can't, _cannot_ pick between them) leaves a bitter, lingering taste in her mouth. Yet as much as it weighs on her conscience, Robin simply can't know about these meetings.

For now.

* * *

Robin likes himself a bit of independence. Preferably a good, large chunk of it. Although truthfully—in an unprecedented and, honestly, shocking manner—lately he's been rather happy to part with his solitary pursuits just to relish the company of the enchanting woman fate had brought into his life. He likes to be around her—whether it's playing their cat and mouse games, trading confidences, or engaging in other _stimulating_ activities.

Still he also enjoys the time apart—enjoys the fact that she, like him, isn't one to limit her personhood to just being one half of a couple (he still has trouble thinking of himself as part of a couple at all, but that is what he is now, isn't he, and he's not complaining either). Time alone comes in especially handy for one still seeking himself. It takes time, this transition from Robin of Locksley, scoundrel, to whatever version of himself he wants to be. It's a lot to figure out, and some of that Regina helps with, but the bulk of it is really up to him.

So Robin doesn't begrudge Regina her little escapades, far from it; and he's plenty to do when it's only him. A bit of hunting, a bit of poaching (although does it still qualify as such when he's doing it in his lover's forests?), and an awful lot of soul-searching.

Except one sunny afternoon he wanders off to a nook of the woods he's avoided before, and his search for answers turns up a daunting secret, a bitter betrayal, and a myriad more questions.

* * *

Regina returns at dusk, tired and dishevelled but uplifted, a flicker of guilt not quite extinguished as she enters her chambers and spots Robin on the balcony. Even his silhouette betrays a rigid posture, his shoulders squared and hands gripping the flimsy railing. The vision of the scrumptious dinner she was about to conjure up for the two of them fades faster than the setting sun.

"Sorry I'm late," she purrs to his back, but her barely formed grin wavers when he doesn't respond. It's not the first time he's come back from his wanderings broody and pensive though, so she swallows the knot forming in her throat and steps out to him, leaning in to whisper: "Maybe I could make it up to you with dessert?"

"It's going to take a lot more than that, _Your Majesty_."

He hasn't moved, but his voice cuts like a knife, and Regina shudders.

"Robin, what's going on?" Her hand hovers over his bicep, but she doesn't quite dare touch him for fear he'll flinch or shy away.

"Nothing I haven't encountered before. Just didn't expect it from you, is all. All the more stupid me."

"I—don't understand. What exactly is it I've done?"

"You betrayed me, Regina! Or perhaps we've both been fooling ourselves all this time. Either way, it's another you pine after."

Her answer comes unbidden, automatic, probably unwise; but the accusation stings, and her temper has always been rather volatile.

"That's ridiculous," she scoffs.

"Then why have you been running off to meet with _him_ behind my back?"

Regina stares. Does he—does he really think she's taken a lover? After the lengths she'd gone to for them to get another chance to be together? Guilt flares up again, but in its wake comes anger. What is he basing this on other than her unaccounted for absences? She could just as easily make the same assumptions, for she has no more knowledge of his whereabouts when away than he does of hers. And she's about to tell him so, about to unbottle her rage—but his next words freeze her on the spot.

"Why," he repeats, and his voice oozes anger and disappointment and hurt, so much hurt, "if not in hopes I may one day be talked into meeting the brat?"

The— _oh_.

 _Shit._

He knows.

* * *

Robin is seething.

He trusted this woman. He'd come to actually trust her, to lo—to like her. A fair bit more so than is currently convenient, because now he's being torn to shreds by the twin demons of rage and resentment. He won't admit to the hurt clawing at his insides, the deep wound coming from the knowledge that much like he'd suspected, and despite her fervent denial, he's never been enough for her.

Regina's face is a mask of shock, her mouth hanging open—he's stunned her into silence it seems. And is he not worth so much as a feeble attempt at—what? Denial? Reconciliation? What is it he'd have her do, exactly? Truthfully he doesn't know, but the longer she's silent, the hotter his blood boils and the colder his heart.

"Don't say that," she finally deigns to speak, her voice laced with pain. "Please don't call him—that."

And she's much too calm (with her temper, that's not at all how he'd pictured their first big fight to go), and oddly penitent for one so defiant. Yet all her words accomplish is twist the knife even more. It's not Robin she cares about—it's that other wretch's brat. It's the brat she defends with her first breath, and judging by the scene Robin had witnessed earlier, she'd defend him with her last.

"Tell me this: exactly how big a joke am I to you?"

"You are not a joke. Roland—"

"That's it? Five measly words, and we're back to _Roland_?" He spits out the name like it's something vile and revolting, and she flinches. Fucking flinches, like he's besmirched the child, and fine, serves her right for what she's done.

"He's important to me," she reasons, clearly forcing herself to retain some semblance of calm, though her hands are clenched into fists.

"That he is," Robin growls, the bitter tang of words unsaid choking him, unsure whether he wishes for her to hear the unspoken _unlike me_ or not.

But she doesn't seem to take kindly to him mocking the child and their relationship, and her ever short fuse goes up in flames.

"So what?" she challenges, her nostrils flaring. "Are you going to make me choose?"

"Why the hell would I do that? You've already chosen."

"Yes, and I've chosen both of you! You're just too blinded by your fear to see it!"

That's an observation much too close to the truth, and Robin won't have that. He won't be called a coward, and he won't be mocked for being unreasonable when he's every right to be mad with her, to rage and yell and demand answers he knows fully well are more likely to damn than save him.

"You said you wanted a fresh start. Why couldn't you just let it be?"

Regina deflates at that, her ponytail whipping once more as she stops pacing and turns abruptly to face him. Her expression has gone soft even as she visibly struggles to find the right words.

"Because I love him," she tells him eventually. "He's the only one I have left from before. My fresh start means moving past a lot of pain and suffering, but it also means losing people I care about. I—I can handle it, I think, because my other half gets to be around them, and because we're both part of the other… Knowing Regina still has our family—" she seems to struggle with the word, like the thought of having a family at all is baffling to her, "—I suppose that's what makes it—tolerable. But Roland—he's _here_. And I missed him. Ever since I sought him out, I've been questioning my decision to keep it from you, but I thought it was for the best, for you to—"

And now she's gone beseeching, and Robin's having none of that.

"Oh, I see now," he cuts her off, voice dripping sarcasm. "This is all about what's best for me! Silly me, how could I have been so dense?"

"Robin, stop it! I'm serious, I'm—at least I'm making an effort to make this right, but you're not even trying!"

But he's no patience for any of this, is in no mood for excuses because damn it, he feels lied to and manipulated and he's no interest in being coddled and comforted when she doesn't even seem to understand the real issue in the first place.

"Well this is not generally what one expects of a fresh start, yeah? Especially since it was you who first pursued me. So what the hell was all this for?"

"I just told you! Roland, he's," she hesitates, and Robin hates— _hates_ —the way her voice breaks. "He'd become a huge part of my life, back when there wasn't much light in it. And when he left Storybrooke—it broke my heart even more."

More than it had already been broken with grief for the kid's father. She doesn't say so, but they both know it's what she means, and it grates on Robin that she wants to shield him, frustrates him that he can't even find comfort in that but only feels rawer by the second.

"You love him."

"Yes," she admits easily, despite his framing it as an accusation. "Is that really so horrible? Can you not—"

"Can't I what, Regina? Tolerate it? Live with it? Warm up to the thought?"

"Yes! Robin, I'm not asking you to meet him, I'm not asking you to have anything to do with him—"

"Maybe not now, but how about later? Do you mean to tell me you haven't the tiniest bit of hope that things might change one day?" That hits her, sucker-punches her into silence, and isn't that telling in itself? But Robin, blubbering idiot that he clearly is, needs to hear it from her. Perhaps he's even dumb enough to hope she'll deny it convincingly enough that he can believe her. "Tell me the truth—I deserve that from you."

She nods slowly, tiredly; draws a deep, never-ending breath. And there it is, that flicker of guilt in those goddamn expressive eyes of hers, and he knows it's over then, but she hammers it in all the same because he was fool enough to ask.

"Fine," she exhales heavily. "Yes, there may be…some hope that, in time… But—"

"We're done here."

"No!" she shrieks, positively shrieks, and the air is suddenly charged with magic she can barely contain as it sizzles on her fingertips. "I want to understand, Robin! Tell me why! What could Roland possible have done to—"

"This isn't about that! You think I'm jealous of some child? You think I'm that pathetic? Maybe I am, but not for the reasons you bloody think!"

"Fucking tell me then!"

Robin has the briefest thought that he should just bow out of this with the last vestiges of dignity—only to throw caution to the winds because this fucking _hurts_ , burns deep in his gut as well as his throat as he shouts back:

"You love him for him!"

* * *

Ultimately, her worst fears have proved right: this is still about Other Robin.

She's failed him—has failed them both, has failed Roland as well.

Regina had resisted for days, and maybe that doesn't sound like much but to her it had been. Roland had been in this very realm—precious, dimpled, tousled-haired Roland—and she'd known eventually she'd cave and look for him. She never mentions Robin to the child, not by name at least, even though it's been hard to deflect curious questions about her living arrangements and when Roland can come to the castle for a sleepover. At least she's protected the sweet little boy in this awful mess of a situation—but Robin hasn't been so lucky.

It had been a tough choice, keeping this from him, but for the best—or so she'd thought. There would be time, she'd convinced herself, after Robin had gotten used to this new land, this new life, and this new relationship (her heart skips a beat—is it still one or has she shattered it to pieces?). Later, when he felt more confident in himself and in them, when he stopped doubting her true motivation and feelings for him. After they both came to terms with—everything.

Then, and only then, she could reveal her secret, and perhaps together they could begin to work out where to next.

But Robin found out too soon, and Regina (just like years previously with Henry) hadn't been ready. She handled their conversation all wrong—not that it was much of one to begin with once their tempers, and that ever-present hurt following in their steps, took the better of them both.

And now here she stands, in the door of the chambers he'd claimed as his but hardly used lately, wondering how the hell to fix this. And part of her—the once Evil Queen—resents the idea that she should seek his forgiveness, would much prefer to just patch up their relationship with some good old make-up sex and be done with it. But this isn't a problem that's going to go away. They need to communicate, and between the two of them, it seems she's ironically now the one more in touch with her feelings, and more practised in resolving conflicts in a healthy way.

She needs to make the first step—but what does she say to him?

 _I'm sorry. I should have told you earlier. I should have reacted better when you found out and questioned my motives. I should have made it clear that I respect your choice. Roland isn't your son. As odd as that may feel to me, he's a stranger to you. And I truly mean it when I say I don't want you to replace anyone. That would be disrespectful to you, and Roland, and Robin's memory._

Regina could say all that, but she knows it's too much too soon, that right now it would fall on deaf ears anyway.

So instead she crosses the room with her heart hammering irritatingly, embarrassingly, against her ribcage and slips into bed next to Robin's —or rather onto it, curling up on top of the covers. His face is barely discernible in the dark, but she can tell he's lying on his back with his eyes wide open, very consciously not looking at her. She blows out an annoyed little breath—stubborn, stubborn man. He's almost as bad as herself, fire coupled with fire, but unless they want their flammable tempers to consume them and with it every dream of mutual happiness, one of them needs to rise above. Right now, that someone needs to be her.

"Robin," she whispers, wishing her obstinate soul mate would at least acknowledge her somehow, raising her voice when he doesn't because she won't have him pretending he can't hear what she has to say or mistaking her whisper for lack of conviction. "I'm with _you._ I _want_ to be with you. I don't want you to be someone else—just your best self. And I promise you I wasn't going to try and talk you into—into fathering Roland."

For the longest time they just lie there, silent and motionless. Regina's heart sinks deeper and deeper with every passing moment, her defiance on the other hand ever on the rise—she's reached out; now it's Robin's turn. At long last, without turning his head, he lifts the corner of the covers for her. Regina closes her eyes in relief, then climbs in and settles shoulder to shoulder with him, not quite touching but close.

She's dozing off when he speaks, and his words keep her awake until the small hours of the morning.

"Good. Because I'm not going to. Not Roland, not anyone. Not ever."


	4. Daredevils

_This was supposed to be (for the most part) a playful little piece. Until it wasn't. It was also supposed to be edited before posting, but that was before I ran out of time. Apologies on both accounts._

 _TW: child abuse._

* * *

"Jewels for a jewel," Robin smirks as he hands Regina the newest treasure never to be passed on to the poor and needy.

Another corny confession they'll laugh at, another in a long line of sappiness coated in thick layers of sarcasm.

She loves it.

She loves _him_.

But those three big little words have yet to pass between them, and Regina waits. She wants Robin to speak them first. Not because she's afraid (she is, if only a little) or because she doesn't yearn to seize every moment (she does, and more than a little); but because she wants him to be ready, wants to let him take that step in his own time, without feeling pressured to.

And so she smirks back, arches a brow at him, curls her lips in mock disdain to mask the lovesick grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, and reaches for the necklace only to have it snatched from her fingertips at the very last moment.

"Hey," she protests. "Is that any way to treat your queen?"

"Does my queen perchance require assistance putting this unworthy trinket around her exquisite regal neck?"

She can't help it—her barely contained smile blooms into a full grin, and laughter bubbles out of her at his over-exaggerated antics.

"You spoil me so," she purrs as he gathers her hair and sweeps it over one shoulder, combing through it just once like one who just can't help himself, before he fastens the clasp.

"Why thank you, good sir," she flirts shamelessly, and his chuckle resonates against her spine where his chest is pressed close. "May I present you with a token of my appreciation in turn?"

Regina slips from his embrace and turns, throwing him a saucy wink as she reaches down her corset. Robin's eyes, dancing with amusement until then, immediately darken, and Regina almost snorts as she coaxes the enamelled dagger from where it's cradled between her breasts.

Robin blinks, fixating on the blade warm from body heat so much she needs to practically dangle the rest of her bounty in his face.

"Got the matching earrings, too. Admit defeat, Thief—and pay up."

Unlacing her boots, she leans back on the chaise and wiggles her toes at him.

Robin shakes his head and clears his throat.

"You know this isn't the slightest bit fair, Your Majesty," he says hoarsely as he settles to rub her feet.

"Why are you such a sore loser?"

"Why won't you admit your magic gives you an unfair advantage?"

"I can beat you without magic," she throws back without batting an eye.

Robin throws her an amused glance—she's bluffing, and he knows it.

"You presume to out-thief the Prince of Thieves?"

Okay, now that he puts it like that, it seems a bit of a tall order, but it won't be her first heist, and she's learned a trick or two from him after all. Besides, they like this—a bit of a risk, a bit of danger. It thrills them both. No way is Regina backing down now.

"I propose a challenge." Rising from the chaise, she pads over to her storage cupboard and removes a crystal vial from one of the many boxes there. "No magic, dawn to dusk. Winner gets extra massages for a fortnight—anywhere and any way they want. Think you can handle that, Thief?"

"To your health, Your Majesty," he toasts as she uncorks the vial and raises it to her lips. "And to my victory."

* * *

Robin picks the target with special care and a bit of tomfoolery in mind.

The abandoned estate is overgrown with ivy, its windows murky and adorned with filthy curtains, and whatever trinkets they'll find inside had better be worth the hassle. Yet the main draw of this establishment is its location. Tucked near a crossroads between three small kingdoms, it's ideally positioned for plotting heists and orchestrating raids, then disappearing across the border for a spell.

There's just one catch: someone else also has their sights set on it.

The competing gang of petty pickpockets and crude cut-purses had made themselves quite a name for swindling rich and poor alike, using not only nimble fingers and swift feet but abusing people's compassion and feeding off their trust. Robin doesn't consider himself a scrupulous man, yet still he detests them for such methods, considers them a bit, well, inferior in skill. He doesn't want them on his turf, and it's only a question of time before they'd attempt to chase him off theirs anyway.

It seems like a good idea to strike first.

It'll be a double test of skill: between Regina and himself, and between their team of two and these poor bastards who are clearly mediocre at their trade if they need to resort to such lowly means to succeed.

Oh what a glorious day Robin's to look ahead to.

Regina has gotten herself into a bit of a pickle.

Everything had gone smoothly and right to plan at first. She'd painstakingly picked the lock on a ground floor window, hoisted herself up and inside with a huff, and only broke a chair leg and a nail in the process. She'd snuck through the estate, her heart racing pleasantly, blood drumming in her ears to the rhythm of _you're a-live! A-live! A-live_! as she combed room after room and emptied shelves and drawers and chests into the burlap sack Robin had presented her with with a shameless smirk. Yes, the plan had worked out almost boringly to the dot.

Until she reached the cellar.

She should have known by the half dozen of locks and bolts, by the chain as thick as her arm, that things were about to take a dark turn. Should have stilled her breathing to catch the faintest whimper from the inside, the muffled _shush_ and the subtle shuffling of feet behind the massive door. Yet all her mind threw at her was what a goldmine it must be to warrant such security measures, and how wonderfully delicious things Robin would do to her for her two extra weeks of so much more than foot rubs.

The moment she broke the last lock (it took shamefully long, Robin would be all antsy in his strategically handpicked hideout and annoyed with his role as lookout idling the adventure away) and slipped into the pitch-black, dank cellar, the door slammed shut behind her.

Regina, overwhelmed by the stench of mold and urine, wishes for the dagger she'd so graciously bestowed upon Robin just this morning.

But she's not _really_ in trouble.

Certainly not in distress.

And she most definitely doesn't need to be rescued.

It's just a closed door. She can find a way out without Robin having to rush in to extract her—and hell no, she won't let this endeavour be a a fiasco or she'll never hear the end of it.

And then something moves in the dark, closing in on her from every side. Regina flicks her wrist on instinct. Nothing happens. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ Of course there's no magic to come to her aid—not until dusk.

Hands grab at her clothes, jostling her, and something isn't right, something about where they grasp and how they hold on tight, almost as if they were caught between trying to tear her apart and wanting desperately to pull her close in some sort of bizarre embrace.

It's when a high-pitched voice pipes up _Shhh, they're back!_ as heavy steps stomp about the staircase and those little hands hold on to her for dear life, manoeuvring the lot of them into the darkest, most remote corner of the cellar, tripping over tattered blankets and scattered bowls, that understanding dawns on her, chilling her blood as she backs into the wall and spreads her arms to gather them around her, bony shoulders and matted hair, as if she could actually offer the protection they deserve.

But in truth, Regina is in over her head.

They don't know she's here, she realises when the door bursts open creaking on its hinges; she could run for it. Could slink to the exit before the flickering match lights the torch and reveals her presence. Could slip past and race for the main door, alerting Robin, letting him cover her with a barrage of arrows as they disappear in the forest before their adversary collects their wits.

She doesn't move.

She can't—won't—leave the others behind.

* * *

She's taking her sweet damn time, isn't she?

Stubborn queen.

Robin only hopes she hasn't gotten herself in trouble. How could she though, with an empty house? He's the lookout after all, he'd know if someone were around. Even for someone less knowledgeable about locks, she should have been in and out by now. He doubts there's such a wealth of loot it'd keep her this long. Perhaps she's planning payback for that one time he pulled a prank with her right in the middle of a heist. He's always known it's just a question of time before she sets him up in turn. And if she's having difficulties, well she'd certainly not thank him for barging in on her when she's trying to prove a point. No, given the lack of immediate danger, Robin will simply wait.

Stretching comfortably up in his lush treetop, he pushes down the urge to be part of the adventure, resolves to sit this one out as agreed, and sets out to plot a series of witticisms to tickle that terrific temper of hers later.

Footsteps approach, arrogantly trampling up the forest path, a jumble of raucous voices hurling profanities left and right.

 _Well fuck._

Robin lets out a peculiar little bark—a fox's call to cubs in danger—that he'd spent hours trying to teach Regina how to return.

She never does.

Cursing inwardly and with his bow at the ready, Robin watches three men come into view, a pleading woman in tow.

"Shurrup, Nancy," roars one of the gang. "Give us a kiss."

Nancy does neither—and the man strikes her with a clenched fist and pulls a knife, its blade glinting briefly before the foursome disappear in the belly of the estate.

Things go down fast after that.

Robin lets loose an arrow, catching the armed man in the shoulder. Half a dozen others rain down on the door. Baffled but uncaring right now whence the help comes, Robin makes for the house. He trips over poor Nancy's motionless body, slipping in a pool of blood. He's hurtling down a steep staircase as shrieks of terror make his own blood curdle. Someone's on his heals, presumably an unexpected ally, out of breath and cursing _those child-abusing sons of bitches._ The ominous meaning of those words doesn't fully register for Robin.

All he can think of is the bloody queen, bold and audacious and too bloody stubborn for her own good.

There she is now, fencing with one of the bastards (he'd had no idea she could even do that), armed with nothing but a piece of rotten wood as half a dozen filthy, scrawny children huddle behind her.

With a well-aimed blow, Regina manages to stun the rascal—

—and then her knees buckle, and with a soft cry, she sinks to the ground.

* * *

Pandemonium breaks out around them as Robin throws himself at her, shielding her from he knows not what, and dirty little hands tear at his flesh in a misguided attempt to defend their benefactress.

Robin doesn't care to explain his motives or stop the blows.

All he cares about is Regina isn't moving, and her shirt is sticky, and warm, and wet—and she's bleeding so fucking much.

"Let her go, mate," a voice booms behind him when small fists no longer pummel his flesh, the shadow of a threat clearer than day. "I said let her—"

"Do not fucking touch her!" Robin roars, whipping around, his fist colliding with a massive gut. "Don't you dare touch her!"

"R-Robin?" The man eyes him incredulously, tall and rotund with a head of curly long hair, visibly shaken but not enough so to not have had known of Robin's existence, and that's how Robin knows this bloke must be one of Other Robin's band.

"Get out of my way, I'm taking her to safety. Get out—!"

"There's no time! Let Tuck take a look. She's losing a lot of blood—"

"Yeah, I can bloody see that!" Robin thunders, running a hand through his hair and feeling cold sweat beading on his forehead. "Just—bloody do something already!"

The friar examines her swiftly, rucking up her shirt to expose the wound.

 _Shit._ It looks deep. _Fuck._

This is all his fault. It's all Robin's bloody fault for letting her come, for baiting her, for challenging her to put herself in harm's way. She's the most bloody obstinate woman he's ever met, with a competitive streak equalling his own, and an adventurous soul that is literally his perfect match—and because of his recklessness, he's _this_ close to losing the best damn thing that's ever happened to him.

"So?" he barks at the friar, gaining himself an odd look from the large fellow. "Can you heal her? Better not turn out a bloody crook, friar," he growls threateningly, "or I'll tear out your guts with my bare—"

"Enough! Stop acting like a prick and make yourself useful!" The burly one holds an anger of his own, never backing down in the face of Robin's, but understanding softens his words when he adds: "You're not the only one who cares about her."

They send Robin for water and he refuses with blazing eyes, swearing not to leave her side. So a boy in shabby clothes offers to fetch some while Robin kneels and moves Regina carefully, resting her head in his lap, brushing the hair from her ashen face. They patch her up good and proper, and he's glad for the friar's steady hands as he cleans the wound and stitches the skin back together. Robin's own hands are shaking something awful, fisting and gripping in Regina's undone braid.

Never in his entire life has he known such terror.

The friar rouses him from the bottomless pit of desperation he's spiralling into.

"That's the best I can do," he sighs as he rises to his feet.

"She'll live?" Robin hears the utterance pass his lips as if a stranger had spoken it, rough with tears he's unaware of shedding.

"Hard to tell. There could be internal bleeding. As long as she wakes up and regains enough strength to heal herself with magic…"

But she doesn't have magic, does she, because Robin had been fool enough to ask she got rid of it for the day. He should've just let her keep this safety net and trusted her to play fair—and even if she didn't, what the hell did it really matter as long as she was alive and well?

Children mill about, huddling together and muttering quietly as the Merry Men try to tend to them.

The stunned man, the ringleader of this stinking hellhole, is nowhere in sight.

Those bastards kept children in the basement of their lair. They murdered that poor girl on the doorstep in cold blood. For all their dirty thieving practices, there hadn't ever been evidence of violence in all of Robin's thorough research of the gang. He prides himself on being a good judge of character, but he'd massively underestimated the graveness of the situation and the depths of depravity these tossers had sunk to.

This house is a fucking viper's nest.

Using children to do their dirty work, imprisoning them like animals to force them to do their bidding! Children, for fuck's sake!

That's why Regina wouldn't get out, that's who she'd stayed behind fighting to protect.

Something shifts in him, and the savage fear, the gnawing guilt, all of the raw emotion pushing against the leaky dam bursts forth transformed to fury, a blind rage that burns to rip, tear, destroy.

He burst out of the damnable cellar and up the stairs, shoving aside the solitary man guarding the tied up villain.

No longer stunned, the prisoner leers up at Robin. He's an ugly man, inside and out. Old, wrinkled, his limbs gnarly and misshapen. Beady eyes stare maliciously into Robin's anger-twisted features, shift towards the basement, then to the lifeless body of poor Nancy covered by a sheet. And he sneers.

The message couldn't be any clearer.

Regina's pale face and torn flesh flash before his eyes; rags for clothes and battered arms; grown men abusing their power and the trust of innocents.

Robin doesn't think. He draws his—Regina's—dagger, and plunges it into the miserable, undeserving wretch's chest, piercing right through the devil's heart.

* * *

He's barely had time to wash the blood off his hands when he's summoned back inside the house.

He counts five children gathered around the bed they point him to, clearly fearful of him but smiling sheepishly at the tiny figure bundled up in the sheets.

 _Regina._

She's awake, too, and thank gods above; she's awake and alive and talking in a reassuring though feeble voice.

"It's okay, Oliver. Little John will take you all to camp, give you food and some proper clothes. And preferably a good, nice scrub," she grins, making the kids giggle. "I'll come see you as soon as I can."

One by one they file out, hesitant but somewhat comforted, and suddenly it's just the two of them.

There's so much Robin wants to tell her. Where does he even start? Should he admit his guilt, all fivescore tonnes of it weighing him down, because his oneupmanship almost cost her her life as he tried to prove himself a true master of his trade with skills and finesse—and for what? Or should he begin with how fucking terrified he was for her, how desperately helpless he felt, how he ached at the thought of their fresh start ending so bitterly, so soon, before he even plucked up courage to tell her what he hoped she already understood? Or perhaps now would be a good time to allow her a peek into his past through the window of memories so awful only atrocious sights like this devil's lair could make him relive them?

"Robin?" she says with a small smile. She looks exhausted, absolutely knackered, still paler than usual but no less beautiful. In fact, she's never seemed more beautiful to him than she does this very moment. He's almost lost her, but once again she's come through, resilient as ever.

He's almost lost her.

"What the hell, Regina?"

"Excuse me?" she bristles, her smile falling, her forehead creasing with displeasure. She won't take kindly to being lectured, and that's not what he wants either—he doesn't want to fight.

"Why didn't you run? Why didn't you call for help?" it sounds as raw as he feels.

Regina sighs, reaching for him, and he finally, finally sinks on the bed beside her and clasps both her hands in his as she answers with a tenderness unlike anything he'd ever been on the receiving end of:

"You'd never have heard me from down there."

Robin just nods, his stomach clenching, and whether she sees it or not she chooses that moment to lean forward, seeking his lips. It's tender, this kiss, tender and fleeting like the brush of a butterfly's wings. When they come apart he doesn't go far, dives right back in for a peck, all of his pent up emotion spilling over and pouring into the deep, desperate kiss that won't stop unfolding—until she's breathless and his knuckles white from clinging to her.

"We could have come back for them, you know."

He's not lying or placating—they could have returned later, rescued the young ones. God, he'd have done it for her—might have done it for himself, too. He's not a monster; he just has—scars.

Regina shrugs, a gesture not at all doubtful of his sincerity, but instead an admission that she simply couldn't help herself.

"You killed that man," she says quietly. There's no judgement, no accusation, just a simple statement as she plays with his fingers.

"I did."

"How'd it feel?"

"Like justice had been served." They don't murder anymore, not since they both decided to turn over a new leaf. Still he's no regrets about this one; but the deed was more than punishment for the beast, and he tells her so. "Like I was doing something—anything. Regina, you've no idea—you were just lying there, and I couldn't help you, I couldn't even think straight, I was," he sobs dryly, he doesn't mean to but fuck it, he doesn't even care anymore, "so bloody terrified I might have killed you."

She twines their fingers then, presses their palms together, and waits to catch his eyes.

"You couldn't have," she says firmly. "I did this because I wanted to, and you couldn't have stopped me even if you'd tried. No one owns me. My decision, my consequences. And knowing both myself and you, this won't be our last adventure."

Except that's not entirely true, is it? At this point, whatever happens to one of them bears consequences for the other as well.

"I shouldn't have asked you to give up your magic, even temporarily. Could've just made not using it a rule and stuck to it."

"Follow the rules? Now where's the fun in that?" she jokes, and he appreciates the effort but it's much too soon, and he's far from recovered. And he's still not sure she fully understands.

"None of this is funny to me right now."

"I—" Her eyes darken, her face falls. "No, it's not. I'm sorry. And I didn't mean to worry you."

"I'll always worry, Regina. Maybe I haven't before, or just didn't really realise, but— Regina, I—"

The words are there at the tip of his tongue, but somehow they feel both too much and too little.

"I know," she says, pressing her forehead to his. "Me, too."

Dusk falls at last, and restored magic heals her flesh with a light almost as bright as the one shining in her eyes, touching their souls and bathing it in purest gold.


	5. Ties That Bind

_TW: mentions of child abuse._

* * *

Robin is fidgeting, and that's hardly a good sign.

Not that Regina's faring any better.

She's trying, for everyone's sake, to be calm, but there's so much at stake here, so much hanging in the balance. This afternoon will, one way or another, determine the course of their lives for a while to come. Still, pressure will only make things worse—hence the heroic attempt at stoicism. At least outwardly. At least for appearances. She's fighting a losing battle though. Robin sees right through it, she can just tell, and this is one of those moments she wishes he didn't know her so well, couldn't read her so easily, or generally just wasn't as observant as he is.

"We're going to have to do better than this," he huffs, "if we want him to think we're anything other than the nervous wrecks we both clearly are."

"Are you still sure about this, Robin?" she can't help but ask, ceasing her pacing before she wears a hole into the forest floor.

Robin works his jaw nervously, but nods all the same. He looks determined enough. He says he wants this—has in fact assured her repeatedly.

"Are you?"

"Of course," she's quick to say. He's already accused her of changing her mind or not trusting him enough after she'd given him one too many outs—but that's not it. She just wants to make sure this happens the right way, for the right reasons.

Little John materialises before them out of the blue—a testament to how preoccupied by their own thoughts they both are, because even though Little John can be surprisingly stealthy when he wants to, he hasn't put in much effort this time. He's alone—a bad sign—and apprehensive yet wearing an obstinate, resolute look as he approaches. Regina's stomach plummets—has he changed his mind after all? After all the talks, not without their share of disagreements, did the Merry Men decide not to give them this chance?

Robin steps forward, tensing up even more, but he keeps a straight face—and that's good, they both need to do that, or else Little John's going to have a very valid reason to go back on their agreement.

"John? Is something wrong?"

"You both have a death wish," Little John blurts out without preamble. "If you wanna be in Roland's life, get over it. The boy's lost enough."

Regina's jaw drops. She half expects Robin to turn on his heel and stalk off then. She wouldn't even fault him for it. He's already changed his lifestyle considerably, travelled realms, made accommodations and compromises—something which doesn't come easily for either of them—and now he's being asked to renounce that flighty temptress, adventure; and without her would he still even be Robin of Locksley?

Yet Little John is not wrong. It hasn't been so long since the Merry Men came to their rescue after a heist gone wrong, and though not entirely their fault, their recklessness and haughtiness had almost made it fatal for Regina in the very least, possibly Robin and a bunch of innocents if it had spiralled even more out of control. And they could have had a failsafe if only she hadn't temporary obstructed her magic just to prove a point. Yes, perhaps that's the key to eating their cake and having it, too. Little John is not wrong—they owe Roland that much.

Admitting to having a death wish is not the same as professing one's love for adventure, however. Regina, when she was still one with her other self, was confronted with this before by those who loved her enough to care—and dare do such a thing. Robin, though—this must be a first. It wouldn't be at all strange for him to seethe and storm and see red.

He does neither.

Instead he meets her eyes and works his jaw for a moment, then nods almost imperceptibly, exhaling when she returns the gesture.

Little John hums in acknowledgement and motions for them to follow him through the thicket, and Regina smiles at Robin, who flashes an equally strained, crooked thing as they venture forth.

It's a small miracle for them to have come this far.

* * *

Things had changed between them after that fight over Roland.

The secret meetings Regina had kept from Robin were no longer secret. Instead they became a carefully planned, precisely executed affair. Regina would visit Roland in the woods, and Robin would steer clear of the area so as not to stumble upon them. Roland was finally able to have those sleepovers in the castle he'd been begging for, while Robin would try not to feel butt-hurt and bitter about having to abandon the warmth of home, of Regina's sheets and her body once a week and go off alone to keep out of their way.

To Regina's credit, she never questioned Robin's staunch refusal to have anything to do with the child—or indeed any child—in any way.

Yet tension still lingered between them thanks to the elephant in the room.

###

"My father used to beat us."

The confession came out of the blue as they lied in bed one night, naked and sated, revelling in the fading bliss of the afterglow. It evaporated in a blink of an eye as she took in his words, and her limbs went from liquid to stiff as she moved to look him in the face. That wasn't something he wanted though, for he cupped the back of her head to stop her, stroking her hair to soothe what desperate pressure the gesture had required. So she only wound her arms around him tighter and, with a painfully constricted chest, let him speak.

"I had a brother, did you know that? A younger brother, Will. He ran away from home after a particularly harsh beating. Never came back. Father didn't even bother looking for him. Disinherited and disowned him instead. Mother and I searched for Will for months. Turned out he'd been found lying in a ditch with a broken neck. Buried in a mass grave somewhere, like a nameless pauper with nothing and no one in the world. Mother died within days of a broken heart."

Regina's breath burned in her throat. Now she understood where his reluctance to speak of his parents came from. Now she knew one more thread by which the two of them were connected.

"Robin, that's—that's horrible." She rubbed his bicep up and down, struggling to respect his wish not to be looked at while he told his tale. His words dripped guilt, and if she had to guess she'd wager his face was sunken with shame—and that was wrong, and she wouldn't stand for that. "But it's also not your—"

"I should have protected him!"

Shit, he sounded on the verge of tears. Let them spill, then, if they'd bring relief; she might even help them along.

"You were a child! Your father is to blame, not you." And now she sounded teary herself, wasn't that just wonderful, and at least her gentle, "It was never you, Robin," had all that pent up frustration collapsing from him lungs.

"Well, yes," he said bitterly, "admittedly it's hard to live up to the expectations of a drunk lord with just enough sense to strike where others won't see it."

"Yeah. Yeah, it is. And yet we keep trying anyway…"

"Not your father?"

Regina shook her head against his chest—they'd spoken about Daddy, touched briefly upon the subject of Cora as well, so Robin was rightfully suspicious of just the parent to blame here.

"Mother. Drunk on power. She'd use magic on me to—" But no, there was no point going there, the details of her abuse didn't matter now. "And I wondered, too, what I could have done to deserve that, what I should have done to make it stop, but Robin—this is on _them_."

"I suppose you're right," he sighed darkly. "But that's not the point. I can't fully explain why I said what I said—that I would never ever parent a child—without mentioning my despicable abomination of a father, so—"

"Robin, you didn't have to explain. You don't owe anyone an explanation."

"Perhaps not, but—you're not just anyone." Regina's breath hitched. She knew this was a big step for them, to have him trust her with this piece of him, to let her near a scar so deep—and he wasn't done yet. "I want you to understand that—that this, my reaction to Roland, isn't only about Robin Hood."

She'd figured that much, in the hours she'd spent agonising over the whole matter. (About her own role in this, and her responsibility. About Other Robin's. Not Roland's—he was innocent in all of this.) Robin had told her in no uncertain terms that his aversion to raising children—any and all children—went far beyond his refusal to parent Roland in particular.

"I've seen you together, you know. Not just in the forest that first time. Yesterday, too."

"Oh," she let out, unsure what else to say. This was news to her—she'd never heard him get back. How must it have felt for him?

"You're quite the sight together," he said in answer to her unspoken question. "You have the touch of a mother, Regina. It's—beautiful to behold. I saw it in that blasted villains' lair, too—the way you protected those children, and how you were able to comfort them even after their ordeal—even when you were badly injured yourself. Those kids are like me in some ways. Like my brother." His arms tightened around her. "Like you."

The criminal gang they'd managed to annihilate still haunted both of their dreams, it seemed. Half a dozen children, neglected or worse, forced to do their tormentors' dirty work, had been rescued from their prison thanks to an unexpected alliance between Regina and Robin and the Merry Men. But Robin was giving Regina more credit than was due.

"I'm an adult with magic. A reckless, temperamental adult even without it. You berated me for it at length," she reminded him.

"We both know you're fierce and courageous in everything you do."

Fierce, perhaps—not always as brave as she could be. But he wasn't finished yet, and this wasn't about her. This was about him, and so Regina swallowed her self-derogatory comments and listened as Robin elaborated.

"I may not have been able to help Will," he said, the sadness in his voice giving way to determination. "But I'm not a child anymore. I'm a grown-arse man, and I'll be damned if I let the past hold me back. I shall cower from shadows no longer. Not my father's, and certainly not Robin Hood's."

Regina wanted to rejoice for him, she did. The Evil Queen certainly would, but thanks to her memories as Regina Mills, she knew this sort of attitude, if not duly earned and worked for, could do more harm than good.

And she told him so. Told him there's no shame in trauma, because she knew now thanks to Regina Mills' therapy sessions with the cricket that some wounds take years, decades even, to work through and start to heal (the scars will always remain), and that everyone's process is different—and that's okay. She tried to tell him, in not so many words, because this new her still needs time to internalise a lot of what her old self already had, and this Robin is likewise darker and more impulsive.

Robin, thank goodness, listened to her clumsy tirade, relaxed a little with each word (she was careful to keep pity from her voice, to be matter of fact instead of condescending in the comfort she sought to give), breathing more easily as his chest rose and fell flush against hers. He took a moment to mull things over, fingers no longer restless but languidly caressing her hair and the expanse of her back.

"I want to meet him," he told her firmly, and suddenly she was the one freezing at his entirely unexpected words. "The boy who means so much to you. The boy who could have been mine in another life. He's part of your world, and so am I—at least I hope so," he added, and she could just hear the grin in his voice even as his palm, warm and protective, flattened against the small of her back.

Regina, heart aflutter, pressed a kiss to his shoulder in an uncharacteristically tender move (although lately such moments had become more frequent), then raised her head to finally look at him.

He seemed exhausted—no wonder after the conversation they'd just had—but confident.

"Perhaps we don't have to keep those parts separate anymore," he suggested. "I want to meet Roland."

* * *

 _Here we go then._

After weeks of discussions and preparations on when and how best to do it, Robin is about to plunge himself headlong into something the outcome of which he's not the faintest idea of. He's about to make the acquaintance of the son of Robin Hood and Marian, and how he navigates this first meeting is crucial to their futures.

Roland has been told about him. Both Regina and his merry uncles have explained as thoroughly and as truthfully as possible exactly who Robin of Locksley is. He won't be playing Roland's dad or long-lost uncle; he'll be himself: Robin from a different realm, with a different life and different character, who just so happens to look exactly like Robin Hood.

Bloody hell, what a mess.

And yet a relief to not have to lie or pretend, to be introduced as himself instead of having to emulate someone he's not.

His greatest fear as he steps out into the clearing, he's surprised to realise, is not for himself but for this poor child who's lost so much and finds himself in yet another utterly bizarre situation tough even for adults to negotiate. That's a good thing, surely—parents are supposed to put their children first. Not that he is Roland's father, not at all. But his feelings are proof he's not a selfish jerk out to wreck a child in blind pursuit of his own goals—and the thought that he has it in him to genuinely care and prioritise the boy releases a tightly wound spring in his chest.

Perhaps he's not a monster. Perhaps children needn't fear him. Perhaps he needn't fear himself around them.

The Merry Men, half a dozen of them sitting around the fire, nod their greetings—they've met before, during a sort of a vetting process to determine whether Robin's presence wouldn't be detrimental to Roland—and the boy himself peeks out from behind Friar Tuck's legs.

It's the first time Robin's seeing him up close, and it knocks the breath out of him. He looks so much like Marian. The thick curls and the twinkling eyes are all her. It seems the boy's inherited everything from his mother and nothing immediately obvious from his father—and that's good, for she was indeed beautiful. It should hardly be a surprise for her child to be equally so.

The only thing missing is Marian's smile, but there's no way of telling whom he takes after in that respect, for Roland is not smiling.

He's staring, wide-eyed, as Robin takes one step towards him and stops. His lip trembles as he looks up at the man who looks so much like the one the child desperately wants but cannot have back. For a moment, an awful moment when a tear almost breaks free from Roland's long lashes, all Robin wants to do is run for itand never look back. What if this was after all a terrible idea that'll only bring them pain? But they've come this far, and he feels Regina's eyes on his back, can almost imagine the fearful longing and faint hope written all over her face, and he has sworn to not run. It's too late for that anyway; he might as well try.

Robin drops on one knee (he'd seen Regina do it, and he likes how it places child and adult on equal footing), and musters a small smile to go with his almost collected:

"Hello, Roland."

"Hi," whispers the child.

"You know who I am?" Robin asks with a touch of new nerves. It's what he's been told—that Roland had been given the essential facts so as not to be shocked at a sudden appearance of a ghost, but the child seems so utterly flabbergasted it shakes what little confidence Robin has.

Roland nods though, swallowing before he answers.

"R-Robin of Locksley," he stammers. "You look like my Papa, but you're not really him."

Well, that is heart-breaking. Simply heart-breaking. And for lack of a better thing to say, Robin says exactly that.

"That must be hard for you, to have me here, looking so much like him yet being someone else."

Roland shrugs, his brow furrowing in a manner Robin supposes is rather adorable as he considers that statement.

"It's a bit like Majesty isn't exactly my old Regina." Somewhere behind him, Regina gasps softly, but doesn't interrupt, only lets out a badly concealed sniff when the child tacks on: "But I still like this new one. Maybe I will like you, too."

Robin chuckles at that, and this seems to set Roland more at ease, too.

"Well, I already like you, young man—telling it straight, I see. So tell me," Robin invites, taking a risk, "is it okay if I stay for dinner?

And he waits with bated breath for the child's sentence. He wants him to be all right with this—he really _wants_ him to be all right with this.

"Yeah," Roland nods at last and pats the log next to him. "You can sit over here with Majesty."

* * *

Conversation is lagging at first. Friar Tuck passes out tankards of ale, Alan-a-Dale strums his harp and improvises a song of Little John's latest mishap during a mission, and slowly but surely they ease into it. But the highlight of the evening undoubtedly comes not with the roast pheasant but the exquisite dessert of Regina's making.

Roland is bouncing on her lap with excitement as she scoops his share into a cone, a huge grin plastered to his dimpled face—and clearly he's inherited something of his father's after all.

Robin, admittedly still not on top of his game, makes a truly terrible pun about ice cream finally breaking the ice between them. For a split second, they all stare at him, and he thinks well, if they won't crack a joke over _that_ , they've already rejected him. Then Friar Tuck levels him with a teasing comeback, and Little John snickers, and Roland bursts into laughter as Regina gives Robin a dazzling smile over the cold sugary treat she's handing out.

 _Oh thank fuck._

It is only hours later, as Robin lies in the tent with a wondrously grouchy queen practically sprawled all over him so as not to be sleeping in dirt, and listens to the snores of the men and Roland's soft breathing where he's curled up clutching Regina's hand, that it dawns on him: they're building their own unique, hodge-podge family.

And this is all still new, and will be occasionally awkward, and forever convoluted—but it's a start.

Maybe the quest for family is the same as the quest for home.

You don't just find one.

You make one.


End file.
